


Honour Spun Like Spider Web

by CrimsonMemory



Category: W.I.T.C.H.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonMemory/pseuds/CrimsonMemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raythor must find a defiant Frost and an injured Miranda and return them to camp. He happens upon them in a strange and awkward conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author warning: Strong language, mature situations, and Miranda flirting in ways and with people that are just wrong. Turn back, ye weak of heart and belly.

Raythor was an honourable man. Though Prince Phobos had him cast into the Abyss of Shadows, he did not blame the Prince and continued to swear his allegiance to him.

He was not a man of excess, either, and rarely indulged in vices. He allowed neither gold nor women, neither fine food nor divine drink, to distract him from his duties.

He obeyed his superiors and put in their place those fools on the rungs beneath him. He fought with the ferocity of a Laringian werebear, but he was no thoughtless brute, unlike Frost, for example.

"Where do you think _you're_ going, girly?" he heard the brutish hunter grunt.

Raythor prided himself on another quality: he treated noblewomen with the respect due of their title, even when they did not bear the semblance of a _woman_.

No one among the Knights of Vengeance knew Miranda's actual age. No one had asked, and Raythor would have been quick to bark at the fool who would dare ask such a rude question. All anyone needed to know was that firstly, shape-shifters aged differently from Galhots, Humans, Lurdens, and the most other peoples. Secondly, Miranda behaved maturely despite her youthful appearance, more mature than most adults, and therefore, the lady deserved respect.

Frost had no regard for her; and once again, he was starting a row with her.

Miranda shot a nasty glare at him. The latest battle with the Guardians had left her hobbling in pain, and the last thing she needed was derision coming from someone who should have been a comrade.

"I need a moment to myself," she replied, holding up her nose haughtily.

"Yer not gonna ask your _precious mommy, Nerissa_ , for permission?" mocked Frost.

The shape-shifter bared her teeth, and her eyes glowed. She stumbled as she lunged toward the hunter. If Raythor had not caught her, she would have fallen onto her knees.

"If I were you," he said, "I wouldn't waste the last of my energy on this ignorant brute."

Then he scowled at Frost and said, "The lady has a right to come and go as she pleases. She doesn't need to tolerate being around us gents all the time."

Frost cursed beneath his breath and marched to some dismal corner. The brute would never learn to respect anyone unless they wielded the kind of power that the Prince and Nerissa did, power to make any thickheaded animal think twice.

"You all right, m'Lady?" Raythor asked Miranda as he helped her to her feet.

She gazed languidly at the captain before replying, "Yes. Thank you." Then she hobbled to some private niche, far from camp.

Wounded though she had been, Raythor trusted that the shape-shifter would not get into trouble. She did not gallumph about the countryside, rousing the world as though she were a drunkard; not like Frost. Besides, Miranda had always kept to herself. When the Prince had ruled, the shape-shifter had crouched in the darkest corners of his gloomy halls, high in her webs where no one but the Prince could disturb her. This life as an outlaw was no life for the lady, and Raythor tried to accommodate her as much as possible.

* * *

"Where is that damned shifter?" snarled Frost.

The old devil had nursed his wounds and come out of hiding. Sad thing about that was the brute could only grouse rather than keep his thoughts to himself (and maintain some quiet at the camp).

"She'll be back," said Raythor.

"How do _you_ know she isn't selling her comrades out?" demanded Frost.

"She would do _no_ such thing."

Frost sneered and crossed his arms.

"That girl ain't no lady," he said. "These spider-type shifters are a back-stabbing lot. Someone shoulda followed her."

The captain glared at the hunter. The honour of others meant as much to Raythor as his honour, and this blackguard was about to lose his tongue for suggesting that she lacked it.

"Lady Miranda has gone off to heal in peace," he said. "She doesn't need to be lying around, feeling vulnerable and unsafe around us."

Frost cursed and stomped around the camp. Raythor was about to lose the last sliver of patience that he had for the brute. He would do more than bust either of his fat lips.

Seizing the reigns of the spotted rhinoceros, Frost led the beast to the edge of the camp.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded Raythor.

"That shifter isn't the only one that needs time to herself," said Frost, and he climbed atop Crimson's back. "I'm going for a ride."

"You don't have the authority to—"

As soon as the hunter cracked the reigns, the rhinoceros charged into the forest. Raythor cursed and marched back to the fire. That audacious fool! Nerissa had stated in clear terms that in her absence, Raythor was in charge and his orders to be executed. That bull-headed thug was inviting every misfortune upon his head by charging off like some petulant boy. If the Knights were lucky, though, he would get his damned self killed one way or another.

"The sorceress shall not be pleased," said the Tracker. "We should not scatter so."

"Miranda has permission to leave," said Raythor.

"But the hunter does not," said the demon.

"I wasn't going to put myself in front of several tonnes of angry rhino."

"The hunter must return immediately. When the sorceress returns, she shall unleash her wrath upon the one given charge over her Knights."

Raythor frowned and sighed. Prince Phobos's moods had been much more predictable than Nerissa's. Even those who had not served the Prince for a week would become accustomed to what pleased or displeased His Highness. Nerissa was much harder to read. Taking prisoners in the name of vengeance could draw her wrath, if she had not received prior consultation, whereas once someone knew their position under the Prince, they knew their duties and did not always need to defer to superiors for every little thing.

_How I miss those days!_ pined the captain.

"All right," he said, and he gazed up at the fading light in the sky. "Tracker, you're in charge until I get back. I'll drag Frost back, if I have to, and we'll worry about Miranda later."

"So be it," said the demon, and the other Knights watched as their captain disappeared into the forest.

* * *

Raythor had no trouble tracking Frost. That heavy beast he rode left deep impressions in the soft soil. The footprints led him to a region of the forest where the trees grew tightly together. He followed the path those that the rhinoceros had smashed with its might.

He held his position the moment he heard voices. Creeping between the thin seams between trees, he drew his sword and looked skyward.

Night approached swiftly, and he did not have the keen night eyes that most of his mates did. He would need to sit put, if he did not hurry, and wait for the morning, and oh! What earful he would get from the sorceress!

"... could have gotten killed?"

"... worry about me..."

Raythor tread carefully upon the detritus. He peered through the trees at the pair who conversed.

"You're about the only one I _don't_ want to throttle," he heard Frost say, "especially that _arsehole_ , who thinks he's the gods' gift to everyone."

His insult was followed by a harrumph and soft, feminine reply.

"You have a strange way of showing how little you hate me."

Frost harrumphed back. He fetched some linen and a small bottle from a pouch hooked to Crimson's saddle. Then he snarled, "I'm not letting that arsehole see me as _soft._ He gives me plenty of shit as it is. It's wonder I don't poison 'im."

Miranda burst into laughter, much to Frost's alarm.

"If _he_ heard you talking like this," she said, "and talking like this to _me_ , his hair would stand on end and catch fire."

"Huh! What little hair he's got," sneered Frost, eliciting a snicker.

They could not possibly be talking about _him_. Frost would have no problem speaking coarsely of Raythor, but Miranda? Encouraging him? Never mind that her breeding was too refined for such vulgar talk; she was too refined for that vulgar _beast_. Less than an hour ago, he had hurled insults, like spears, at the young woman, yet there he knelt before her as she reclined on a fallen tree, anointing her bloodied legs with healing ointment and wrapping them in linen.

"Ah!"

"Keep still!" commanded Frost. "If I don't do 'em with a certain tightness, you won't heal proper. And then what?"

"Nerissa could always—"

"Nerissa? Ha!" laughed the hunter. "That hag? You know, I've been startin' to think that she's got other things going on. She doesn't tell us shit, and yet she has us runnin' wild through Metamoor, puttin' us in situations that get us half-caught or just about killed. I mean, I gotta use my fingers and toes and somebody else's to count how many times _you've_ gotten hurt."

He shook his head and continued, "Nah. Nah, I'm not letting her see you bad off. You'll walk funny for a while, but I'll be damned if she starts thinkin' you're... _useless_."

While Frost gave his treacherous speech, Raythor just about jumped from the forest to hack the blackguard. Audacious was not sufficient enough to describe the back-stabber. Huh, back-stabber—and just before, he suggested that _Miranda_ was capable of the thought-crimes of which he had confessed at that moment. It figured to Raythor: the guilty party always blamed their crimes on other folks.

The only thing that redeemed the dishonourable bastard was his concern for Miranda's well-being. Granted, Raythor wondered why, although from where he stood, it sounded like a set-up. Frost seemed to tantalise the thought of rebelling against Nerissa. He would be a fool to try, and he would be an even more depraved devil for recruiting Miranda. That had to be it.

"There! You should stay off your feet as often as possible," said Frost. "If you can get away with it, give your ankles a week."

Miranda scoffed. "I'm not human, Frost. If Crimson doesn't mind carrying me for a day or two, the swelling will go down, and I can walk just fine."

A pause formed between them. Frost gazed up at Miranda, and while Raythor could not see his face, judging by Miranda's pout, the hunter was skeptical.

"Well, I certainly can't _stride_ ," she said as she crossed her arms.

"We'll fetch you a nice walking stick," said Frost. "You can steady yourself _and_ club a bastard, if they get too close."

Miranda smiled and relaxed. She pulled her hair behind one of her ears as Frost rose and replaced his possessions in his pouch. She spoke softly: "Well... I let _you_ get close without striking you."

"Probably because I'm only half a bastard," he chuckled.

Miranda frowned, fumbling with her skirts. Raythor tried to peer more closely, wondering what she was up to. Something about her and the hunter smelled very off, yet neither of them realized what the other was doing.

Frost pat Crimson on the head and turned back to Miranda.

"I should probably help you back," he said. "We don't want precious Nerissa to worry about what's happened to her dearest children."

"Why hurry?" asked Miranda. "She'll come when she comes, and who knows what hour that shall be?"

"Well, I don't want the good, ol' captain haranguing me," he said. "At least, if I bring you back _unspoiled_ , I can redeem myself."

"Oh." Miranda's face fell again, and she averted her gaze. The hunter stood tall and scratched the back of his head before he knelt before her again and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Could you... Could you do me a favour before we return?"

"What's that?"

As the lady hiked her skirts passed her knees, she asked, "Help me get my stockings back on?"

The pause that followed felt much longer than it was.

Raythor felt as though his eyes would fall out, and his face burned so hotly, he was certain he would pass out. _Maids_ helped ladies put on their stockings— _maids_ , not burly hunters. Surely, her hands had not been injured during the last battle. Did she actually need Frost to put on her stockings? Raythor bit down on one of his knuckles to stifle a noisy gasp.

"Uummm... I... uhhh... The... whaaaa—"

At least Frost was also flabbergasted. Incredible! The brute actually had standards—he actually paused (which meant that pea-sized brain was thinking _hard_ ) rather than pouncing on her, like the perverted predator that Raythor always assumed he was. Incredible! The brute managed to redeem himself again, however small a redemption it was—

"Sure. Lemme see, now..."

Short-lived redemption… Raythor groaned silently. He absolutely refused to watch. Never mind that Miranda appeared so _young_ —again, she was a shape-shifter, and her people did not age as other people's did. Nevertheless, if one could bypass that awkwardness, there was the lesser but still important fact regarding her _class_ : she was _far_ above this scum! It was an act of the gods that she allowed him to touch her just to heal her. Nerissa _could_ have done that and saved the lady from being defiled by this... this... _beast!_

"Mmm! Thank you, Frost!"

"Yeah. Yeah, uh... my pleasure!" he replied, his voice warming up.

"Shall we return, then?"

"Yeah. Yeah, lemme help you."

The hunter grunted as he lifted her into his arms. Raythor peered at them as Frost approached Crimson.

_Might as well show myself._

Rustling a few branches before he approached, Raythor slipped between the trees. Frost set down Miranda immediately and drew his sword. He stood between her and the approaching figure.

"Frost?" called the captain.

The hunter groaned and relaxed his stance. He snorted, "It's _you_. What the hell do you want?"

Standing with his hands on his hips, the captain nodded toward him and said, "I want you get your sorry hindquarters back to camp. You had no right to leave like that, and I'll be damned if Nerissa tans my hide for your foolishness."

Then he leaned to one side and looked at Miranda. He asked, "Are you all right, m'Lady?"

She frowned and lowered her gaze. Fumbling with her skirts again, she mumbled, "I am. Thank you."

"You sure? This brute didn't hurt you?"

"No, captain!" she snapped, her eyes glowing. "He did _not_."

Raythor recoiled. He had not asked a prying question, only if she were all right. He could not betray that he had seen all that had transpired, for how great would her fury be then? She might shape-shift and drain his blood to the last drop, if she found out.

"Bastard."

Raythor glared at Frost, but the hunter paid him no mind. He picked up Miranda and placed her atop Crimson. Then he took the beast's reigns and led it back to the camp. That gentlemanly façade did not fool Raythor. As far as he was concerned, that treacherous brute had a plot up his sleeve, and he would be a damned man indeed if he allowed Frost to lead Miranda astray.

* * *

By the time they arrived, only the fire and stars lit the night. To his fortune, the sorceress had not returned yet. The other Knights had barely moved a muscle (those that had muscles, that is). Frost found a rocky niche for Miranda to rest, and he helped her climb inside.

_He's probably sneaking another peek,_ thought Raythor with a sneer.

His glare was planted firmly on his face when the hunter marched toward him. The larger Galhot growled, "The shifty brat wants a word with you."

Raythor glanced at Miranda, who played a string game with some web she had spun. He brushed against Frost as he marched toward her, eliciting only a curse (what a surprise! He thought that Frost might take a swing at him).

Kneeling before her, he asked, "What would you have of me, my Lady?"

Looping her fingers through the string, she spoke softly: "Captain, while I appreciate your concern for me, I would prefer that you not eavesdrop when I try to entertain _company_."

"My Lady?" Raythor's brows knitted together. Frost had been his quarry. He had not intended to spy on them. He did not know that the pair had happened upon each other.

Setting her hands in her lap, she gazed at him and continued: "You fight your battles against Frost, and I'll deal with Frost in _my_ way."

The captain shifted.

"I swore an oath that I would always defend the honour of Prince Phobos's courtiers."

"And you've done a _wonderful_ job," she assured him, "but I am not only a lady. I am a shape-shifter. And what seems vulgar to some of the nobility is perfectly acceptable to me. So if you're still worried about my honour, don't worry as much."

The captain flushed and bowed his head. "Understood. By your leave, m'Lady."

Miranda bowed her head, and Raythor returned to the fire.

"What'd she say?" growled Frost.

Raythor cleared his throat and replied, "She asked I'd keep it in confidence."

"Humph! If she said I got fresh with her," Frost said, "she's a bigger liar than even Lord Cedric was."

Raythor scoffed and glanced at Miranda, who cast a brief smile toward the men before resuming her game. The captain shook his head. By no measure did he think that her choice in a _close_ companion was wise, but he would let Frost's brutish behaviour speak for him. After all, an honourable man knew when to desist, especially when commanded to do so by a lady.


	2. Frost the Hunter

**Annotation:** Although I had intended this to be a one-shot, I decided to continue forward with a second chapter, based on Frost's perspective but written in third-person. I'm tantalising adding a third, final chapter from Miranda's perspective, so keep an eye out.

* * *

As far as Frost was concerned, Raythor was a braying jackass. He was always going on about honour, bloody honour, as though the world would collapse, like an unstable mine, if the oh-so precious pillar of _honour_ were removed. Honestly, it made Frost sick to his stomach; and besides, what made that damned fool think that _his version_ of honour were the correct one?

Frost could give a flying Tartoogan's rear about honour. He was a hunter, after all, and being a hunter meant one had to be _sneaky,_ although he preferred the word stealthy. They meant the same thing, he knew, but 'sneaky' conjured the image of some Passling, stealing some merchant's gold and whisking it off to the highest bidder. 'Stealthy' sounded a bit more tactical, more _dangerous_. No matter what one called it, though, being sneaky—or stealthy—wasn't exactly _honourable_ ; you know, concealing yourself to give you an edge over your quarry or enemy. If Raythor had it his way, they'd be out in the open, not hiding like 'cowards.'

Then again, they'd be a lot deader, too. Fie on his nebulous honour!

Take Miranda, for example. She was a shifty, little shape-shifter, but being sneaky gave her an edge. She could be real nice and quiet before pouncing, just like a successful hunter was—stealthy. Likewise, she could play the pretty, little, well-behaved girl: with her pretty, silk skirts, her regal slippers, her well-groomed hair, and her darling, little porcelain face. She fooled every eye that saw her the first time, cozying up to her victims, flashing her sweet, little smile—yeah, you could always tell when she was up to know good when she smiled.

Smart man though he was, Prince Phobos made one foolish mistake when he gave her a noble title. That shifter was no lady. Ladies knew about honour and protected it with their lives, but Miranda? She wouldn't know honour if it got caught in one of her webs.

After Raythor had gone to sleep, Frost made himself comfortable, beneath the niche in which Miranda had settled.

"So, what'd you tell 'im?" asked Frost.

The shifter opened her eyes languorously and smiled. She replied, "I told him to mind his own business."

Frost stifled a snort.

"Don't you know?" he began. "Raythor is Nerissa's _precious_ Captain. If he wants to nose around and tattle on the rest of the children, then he'll do it."

Miranda rolled her eyes.

"Why do you insist on comparing us to children?" she asked.

Frost harrumphed. Oh, gods! Seemed that he tripped a sensitive wire... Though she didn't go on about being older than she looked (not like Raythor on honour), she didn't care for blokes calling her 'girly' and 'child' or 'brat.'

" 'cause that's how Nerissa treats us," he said. "Every time we come back with our tails between our legs, that old hag chides us like brats that got caught eating sweets. It's more humiliating than getting stripped starkers and receiving thirty stripes."

Miranda lifted her head and raised an eyebrow. "You actually _want_ to be beaten?"

"Well, it's that or get that angry nan stare," he said. Then he crossed his arms and said, "Prince Phobos knew how to punish people, and even when he didn't lift a finger or give you over to Lord Cedric, he certainly put the fear of the Infernal Realm in you. Now, that doesn't mean I liked triflin' with him—hell, no! But you still felt like a _man_... or a _woman_ , even when you got ass kicked."

After all, he remembered, Prince Phobos punished people equally, regardless of what they had between their legs or not.

Miranda hummed thoughtfully and fell quiet for a moment. The two watched the campfire crackle in the distance before she spoke:

"Maybe that makes the punishment perfect."

"Huh?" What'd she mean 'perfect'? Nerissa's approach was so damned infantile.

As Frost peered into the niche, Miranda looked down at him and continued:

"Punishing people is about making them feel inferior. You know, humiliation, _degradation_. You'd rather get whipped than nagged like a child? Perfect!" And Miranda clapped her hands for emphasis. "That's how she'll punish you."

The Galhot hunter scratched his goatee. Made sense, at least, the way she told it. Hell, it made sense to him as a hunter. If you wanted to keep your quarry firmly under your control, you looked at what really weakened it, and different types of prey had different weaknesses. A poison that worked for one might not work on another; so, it made sense that no single type of punishment fit every lad... or lass.

"She do that to you?"

"Hmm?"

Frost looked her straight in her eyes and said, "You know, when she isn't scolding _all_ of us together?"

Miranda frowned and averted her gaze. She pouted, and her nose curled.

"It's not my fault that my human body is... _off!_ " she growled.

"I never said it was," said Frost.

"You know, I look my age in my _true_ form!" she snapped, eyes glowing.

Frost lifted his hands defensively and retorted, "Okay! Okay, I believe you. Didn't mean to trip you—just stay calm."

The glow in her eyes subsided, and she slowly relaxed. He doubted that in her current condition she could do him harm, but he wasn't going to take that chance.

Clearing his throat, Frost decided to switch topics. "Sooo... You, uh... You got some strong legs."

Miranda gazed flatly at him. Honestly? she was probably thinking. What'd that have to do with anything?

"I noticed when I helped you... ya know... get your stockings on."

The shifter smiled and nestled into her niche again.

"Oh, really?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I was gonna say, you're probably gonna heal up in no time with fine legs like those."

Perhaps he should have gotten a bit concerned when she flashed her pearly teeth. Shifters were always up to no-good when they flashed their teeth like that.

"Funny, I could have told you that," she said. Then she pulled some of her behind one ear and continued: "In fact, I _did_."

"Yeah, well..." All this small talk? Frost didn't converse—it wasn't in his nature. But anything to keep old tarantula fangs calm, even if he'd go out of his comfort zone. "I mean, what I meant to say was 'Hey! You're right. You got a good pair o' legs—I mean, a _strong_ set of legs. You really will be all right.'"

Miranda hummed and began to play with her skirts. Gods help him... It was nice having Miranda around and all to balance out the serious lack of a young, feminine touch, but gar! Frost always thought of her as _off limits_. Besides, he preferred plump woman, especially boisterous ones serving mugs of grog.

Clearing his throat a little more loudly this time, Frost stood and said, "I best go check on Crimson. I think he might have eaten something earlier that just didn't set right with him, and, well, you know how quick these poor rhinos can turn for the worst."

"Oh?" she groaned. "Poor thing! If it isn't too much trouble, while you're out, could you get _me_ a little something?"

By the gods' mercy, what could she possibly want of him _now_?

"Umm... Sure. What?"

"I thought I saw a Scittery hole nearby. I'd be ever-so _grateful_ if you hunted a big, fat, juicy one for me."

Scitteries were almost easy hunting. They looked like Scuttlers but were about the same size as and had the same diet as rabbits. They also were about as speedy as the hopping devils, so if he wanted to catch one, he'd need to make a trap or he'd need to try shooting one with an arrow, and he was a rusty archer.

"Sure," he said, "no problem."

She probably didn't know it, but her little assignment just gave him an excuse to stay out longer. Of course, Crimson was fine; a little grumpy after eating a head of Ridoss cabbage that had turned sour, but other than that, the beast had a strong stomach. Frost wanted to get away from that shifter for as long as he could.

As Frost led the spotted rhinoceros from camp, he wondered if Miranda was trying to get him in trouble on purpose. Willing though she was, he wasn't going to get caught with his sarong down, messing around with her. By the gods' mercy, he could already envision Raythor's face alone, the bastard, simultaneously disgusted by the scene but somehow satisfied that the hunter finally did something that warranted an arse-kicking.

He wouldn't blame folks for being upset. Again, he preferred well-nourished cows to dainty calves and wondered how sick a man must be to think otherwise. And he had met a few blokes like that while serving Prince Phobos. Of course, the Prince never knew about them because despite all the harsh things that happened under the Prince, he never tolerated folks with an appetite for veal and dealt with them swiftly when he found out.

 _And you know what, Frost, old boy?_ he thought. _The way that arsehole Raythor goes on and on about honour—well! The fact you don't wanna get fresh with Miranda makes you an honourable man._

"Yeah. Yeah!" he affirmed himself. It wasn't like he was some dirty, old Galhot, sneaking peeks up her skirts and what-not. That old bastard Raythor—he had no right to call him a mindless brute. He was certainly using his head, now, to stay out of trouble, and he wasn't jumping her bones like some brute.

Well, to hell with Raythor! He needed to mind his own business.

* * *

After the hunter managed to catch one Scittery juvenile, he headed back to camp. Hopefully, the old hag hadn't gotten back before he did, so he wouldn't get an earful of her nagging. Honestly, everything he had told Miranda—he felt one hundred percent: Nerissa was up to something. She may not have been as powerful as Queen Elyon, but Frost knew that there were different kinds of magic in the world. A subtle spell could do someone in just as badly as an energy blast that punched a hole through someone's chest; and the way he figured it, Nerissa worked with subtle magic, pulling strings nice and quiet-like, biding her time and weaving her hexes with care.

Just why she needed them was a puzzle still. About the only people she talked to were Raythor and Miranda, and Miranda was even more tight-lipped than the captain. She still hadn't told anyone how the hag had recruited her, for example.

Before he could dwell on the thought any further, he arrived at camp. And what a surprise! Nerissa hadn't made it back yet. The crone was probably sneaking around Meridian again, snatching up more than just hairs that had fallen from Elyon's head. The thought of it just about made him nauseous. Forget Frost creeping on Miranda; who knew what that nasty hag was up to?

Tossing the carcass up to Miranda, he said, "Here you go. Not exactly a feast but a little something to whet your appetite."

Miranda's eyes widened. She caught the Scittery and gazed at it, as though for a moment, she had become one of those uptight ladies who shrieked at the sight of insects.

"You... You actually brought me something?"

Kindness was a rarity among Prince Phobos's servants, sure, but it didn't warrant being so stunned.

"Yeah, well..." Frost crossed his arms and glanced away. "I mean, you gotta eat, right? Keep up your strength? You won't heal if you don't get some protein in you."

Miranda smiled, but it wasn't that mischievous smile she was almost always flashing. It was a little more... _off_ , like doll's smile, her brows knitted together and her eyes all soft and cervine. It was unnatural—for a shape-shifter, that is.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Frost threw his hands up dismissively. Then he sat upon a stone nearby, listening to the shape-shifter crack the carapace and slurp up the Scittery's juices.

Yup, she definitely wasn't a lady—not like the hoity-toity ladies he had heard about in the old tales that his mother and aunties used to tell about the former Queen and her court. Whereas they seemed delicate, proper, and squeamish, Miranda was fierce, gritty, and fearless. Sure, she got her arse kicked often by the Guardians, but she was tenacious, a true Knight of Vengeance.

Frost heard the Scittery's remains hit the distance with a _whomp_. A soft belch followed and after that a satisfied sigh. He stood and walked to the niche, finding that Miranda had tucked herself deeper inside for the rest of the night.

"Sleep tight, ya shifty shifter," he said.

Miranda's smile shone as brightly as her glowing blue eyes.

"Good night, you handsome beast," she said. "Perhaps I can reward you for the meal, once I get my strength back."

Frost's heart skipped a beat. Gods help him... She wasn't going to give up. Of course, she was right about him being handsome; how could any woman resist his charms? And after all, she was giving off all the mating signals, so why not in the least consider her offer?

"I look forward to it."


End file.
